Sunday, September 9, 2007

And I will sing you morning lullabies.

Midnight skies turn misty gray and rain, on fragile panes, whispers declarations of breaking day. An upward glance again acquaints delicate eyes estranged by dreamless sleep, and fingers trace shadow creases of wrinkled sheets in search of Heart.

Good morning, sweet Sunday.

The rest is all omelets, and lethargy, and the happiest girl that ever lived.

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